


A Day In The Life of a Torture Victim

by uragani



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Acid, Anatomy Reference, Demonic Power, Gen, Hot Pokers, Psychological Torture, References to Torture, Setting Porn, Theoretical Perspective of the Viewer, Torture, Whips and Chains, scalpels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:46:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uragani/pseuds/uragani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Primarily, as it says in the tags, "setting porn" which is when a setting is given lavish detail as if it were a particularly juicy scene; in this case a scene depicting one of Alastair's Favorite torture chambers from the theoretical perspective of the viewer, ending in a quick brief beginning to a day of torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day In The Life of a Torture Victim

If you were the one so unfortunate as to find themselves on the chopping block, your eyes would open onto a perfectly normal room. Dark stone walls, with a perfect line of frosted windows backed by florescent cold lighting around the top foot or so, unwavering in color or brightness; the steadiness was a trick keeping one from knowing exactly how much time had passed. The emphasis of the whole scene at first glance must be placed on how normal it looks, almost like a kindergarten teacher with a love of metal working who perhaps dabbled here and there in medical practices on the side. The cabinets were the type everyone remembers from grade-school, that slate grey slightly marbled but plastic-y texture with the tiny metal locks which only seemed to come in the standard sizes of "medium and really deep" and "big enough to hide a body".

The table you would be strapped to in such a scenario would be a lovely silky smooth wood, though the rough edges betray that it was not smooth by creation, but as a side effect of intense use. It's wide enough to strap a Kodiak bear down, with an adjustable system so one could also strap, say, a child in place. The owner obviously takes great pride in it, as the metal of the shackles is gleaming. Even though it appears tarnished in color, the dark tone is clearly just the metal involved with no grime to speak of. The chains go through grommets to the area underneath the table, and to push the hypothesis that you could perhaps be free to look under it (a laughable scenario indeed) you would assume the chains in their corner holes would be lengthened or shortened with a wooden crank. A crank such as the one to your left, which tilts the table to be almost any angle, even tilted forward like a sacrificial cow getting drained of its blood. There's also a lever for table height changes in the same cold metal, to help the owner with possible back problems. He is an old man after all, and has been doing this a long, long time.

From this table you would be facing a wall with a standard metal door, complete with that little box of a window crisscrossed by internal metal grating that kept it from being broken. It is too high to see anything outside of note, and is frosted like the upper windows. It merely allows slightly more glow into the room. Along this wall, facing the door, there is a sink to the right. A cabinet immediately starts at the door frame, extending into the room with some counter space at the height of a medium adult male. A human male, just for clarification. The sink is embedded in it a foot or two to the right, with a pair of swinging cabinet doors underneath it. Above, in a dark mahogany offset color instead of the usual piss stained color schools favor so much, is cabinets running the entire length of the wall up to the shower in the corner. They stop for the window-line, and are a few feet above the sink. A small step stool commonly seen in libraries is nearby, explaining how anyone could possibly use them at their full height. Along the top of the cabinets is a series of jars, and looking closely you might imagine a child's science fair project. They appear to be animal body parts stashed in alcohol, but with slow horror one might realize they are much more human than that.

The corner shower is frosted glass, except the door which is perfectly see through. There is a long metal bar to open and close it, the base is grey with a single drain (which appears to have a garbage disposal attachment for some odd reason) and even a small seat inside such as for older folk. There's a removable head, so that one can direct the water in any direction you want, and if you could read the writing on the head you'd find it comes in multiple speeds. "Soaker", "Spray", "Hard Spray", "Jet", and the ever favored "Pressure Washer" which could likely take the paint off a house and the skin off a horse to boot. The hose is long enough to reach the entire room, and if you were quick on your feet you'd realize there were several drains around the room with the same grate and hinge structure as the shower, also concealing a garbage disposal each. Hell, because that is where you were in case you didn't realize it yet, had very good water pressure.

Along your right side the wall visible to you would be plastered with an extremely large poster of human anatomy, in the style of blown up or exploded design. It's as if someone had had their chest carved open, pried to either side, and then had their organs carefully removed and butterfly pinned to the wall. That's when you realize the poster is screaming silently, and has never been a poster. The lungs are moving, the heart is beating, the movement alone should have caught your eye, but you had that foolish mortal conception of hope. The skin has been incised down the center, and carefully skinned back far enough to be pinned to the wall so that every muscle is visible. Portions of the left arm (the hand and the shoulder joint), and right leg knee joint, have been cut to the bone with the meat pinned alongside to show the internal details. Small neatly printed white paper notes decorate the body, pinned in place on long pins from the side in other to declare nervous systems, and anatomy. This is obviously so that a victim such as yourself can identify when the brachioradialis muscle is being stabbed with hot pins, and feel that tiny measure of pride that you know what that is. Hell, is apparently also a learning experience.

The mouth is working, and the flex of muscle is gorgeous. The fat has been trimmed back to yellow streaks, and the throat separated. A small pin, like the others, is directly through the voice box, which explains the silence. The head must have been shaved beforehand as there is no visible hair to the scalp pinned to the wall behind the skull. The skull itself is pinned in place by two bolts on either side of the spinal cord, which are visible behind the tonsils when the mouth opens like a gasping fish. The eyes are blue, and roll in their sockets alarmingly visible on one side due to a slice directly from the cheekbone back through the bone, muscle, fibers, and skull. The plate removed is pinned, inside facing out, to the side of the head. Not a drop of blood is visible loose and around the body, all structures having been healed to minimize damage, and anywhere open veins are pumping, blood hovers in midair; following the old route or perhaps a slightly deviated one in the case of the removed tissue which joins in with invisible t-joints. Whoever is working him over clearly has some sort of psychic ability. The blood even retains the two separate colors, one a darker red than the other due to deoxygenation. Besides the body, this wall also contains some more generic cabinets on the far right, but really who's looking at them?

Let us exercise the imagination further again, and suppose the table has been used to flip you upside down, so you can see the other half of the room while the blood collects in your head and gives you a blinding pressure headache. Before it manages, you would likely note several things of interest. For one, in the corner farthest from the shower's corner, is a fireplace. This explains the fair amount of heat, not exceeding 75 degrees, that you are experiencing. Slightly too warm, but not enough to complain about. Just another niggling dissatisfaction. The fireplace has several levels of coals, and a semi-automatic billows on the side keeping them red hot. In the uppermost level, even with a man's waist, is a series of poles. If you were to look closer at the varying sizes you'd realize they were branding irons, from the simple iron poker, to more embarrassing designs reading such things as "SLUT" and a decorative"A". There were finer tipped ones, a series of them in fact, which were designed with comfort-cool grips allowing the user to manipulate them like pencils, drawing the heated metal across flesh to create designs. Several were heated at any given time so that one didn't have to stop while using them to wait for another to heat up unless they were enjoying the suspense. Obviously the owner had quite a bit of experience with this procedure, as there is also a spray bottle of cooking oil sitting on the mantelpiece to keep the meat from sticking.

You would have skipped a fair portion of wall to get to the fire, which is likely because you are upside down and it's such an eye-catcher, so that's alright then. Shelves line this wall, as well as a section of three feet of bare wall with hooks to hang things on. It looks like the wet dream, or a swap meet, of a BDSM fetishist. Whips of all sorts hang low, from bull whips so finely oiled they're sure to raise skin on the first strike, to cat o' nines with barbed metal tips on the heads for ultimate ripping. There's paddles, and flails, and swords. Some two handed monsters, and others razor sharp dirks. Across the shelves above even more tools and bottles are settled neatly into places on specially designed wooden holders so they are openly displayed as perhaps artistic pieces. The bottles are unlabeled, clearly the owner knows right where everything should be. Pliers, as common as ones found in hardware stores, in various shapes and sizes are placed strategically near more preserved flesh. A single silver spoon sits near the edge of the lowest left hand shelf, and Lobotomy picks are crammed into their holder; this is a wooden skull whose eye sockets were drilled to accept the tools. An old fashioned hand crank drill sits in a place of honor, still rusty or perhaps flecked with dried blood. There's even an embalming set among the many and varied objects and some clearly antique thumbscrews.

Now that that's over we'll return to an upright position and let the blood drain out of your head so you can enjoy the wall on your far left. The Fireplace is a corner design, so it takes some space from this wall as well with its extended hearth mostly in parallel. Also visible is a book case which reaches the glowing windows, and is filled with arcane books. Designs in Enochian, in anatomy, and in general medical lingo abound. There's a few demonic looking books, one wrapped in chains, and a few bound in human leather. One even has a tattoo preserved for a frontispiece. Overall it gives the impression of someone well stocked to teach others about the craft he loved so dearly. The second book case, which takes another third of the remaining wall, is more like an apothecary than anything else. Herbs drying, skulls of animals on display, and even a few bottles containing teeth and hair. There's even one of what appears to be urine. A few small hex boxes are in place, and of course there's a large copper bowl, a black cloth, an athame, and a chalice. There's also a small box of brand name white chalk still in the familiar green and yellow packaging.

There is a small metal table between you and the last third of the wall which we will get to shortly. The table is similar to one found in just about any operating room, with a piece of clean white paper at the bottom in case of spills, and each tool gleaming brightly as possible. Obviously shined with love, and elbow grease, not magic. Someone took time with these tools, not just sterilized news ones from a package either. They had weight, a life. They range from perfectly clean, to blades spotted slightly with rust, although impeccably cared for. Oiled even, to prevent the spread from the nicked and chipped blade that would function more like a dull saw than the scalpel edge that would be expected. There are forceps, a wonderful reminder that out of these tools this and the scalpel set are the most familiar. The rest are varied, some not ever used on you personally, and others clearly designed for some purpose which you do not have the clearance to be informed about except through experience. 

That brings us to the final third of this wall, wherein a large dark green chalk board nearly reaches the floor. Scribbles abound, arrows, words in various languages, and symbols everywhere. There's even mathematics here and there, clearly corroborating the theory that math is part of Hell. It seems as if a madman has been chattering endlessly and only writing key points down; so the wall very much looks like a chalk board mid-lecture during one of the more esoteric college classes. There's even a fine sketch, resembling that of Leonardo Da Vinci's style, of the workings of the human forearm and how the tendons connect, with scribbling notes about the proper way to bleed a kill so as to not kill them quickly, nor sever the tendons just yet. The name Meg stands out in the upper right hand corner with a pretty gold star drawn in yellow next to it, clearly someone learned something at some point annoying enough that sarcasm had been employed to rub it in their face. There is nothing on the last bit of wall before the door, except a poster of a kitten clinging to a branch with the words "Hang in there" written below it.

You hear the footsteps in the corridor before anything else, a sharp click of good heels on comfortable Italian leather. They take an eternity to arrive, and the near corpse on the far wall is in even more terror than before. The fear might even be electric, might be subtly infecting you. In any case the foot steps stop outside the door, the previously mentioned frosted window showing the outline of shadow; a head and shoulders. The door handle clicks, and you realize a key is being placed into a lock, and the humming... you can hear him humming. The door swings open, and standing in a perfectly disheveled meat suit is the man you have come to learn a lot about in a very short time, using only the room he calls his work place. He carried a bound journal, more human skin, under an arm and takes time to turn and lock the door. He is clearly a master of suspense, as he takes his time and jingles the keys enough to wreak havoc on the nerves of mere mortals.

He turns singing under his breath and you are shocked to hear a familiar tune, "The wonderful thing about Tiggers," the man drawls. His voice is harsh and whispering at the same time and it's easy to infer this man never speaks above a mild mannered tone because he doesn't need to. Rage didn't suit him as loud and blustering like some fearful dog, but soft and sibilant. A wheedling, short, limping voice that is gravelly and rough and sounds quite similar to Marlon Brando come to think of it. He fingers the scalpels, weighing a perfectly clean one versus the chipped one that had held such fascination for its flaws, "Is Tiggers," he pauses and raises the chipped blade. The other settles with a soft clink

"Are wonderful things," he says it as if explaining the Garden of Eden to a particularly dull child who is getting a lesson in the wonders of chocolate. He smiles as he moves forward, the sleek oily substrate of his demeanor soaking in and pervading everything you know. You can feel him on you miles before he arrives, and presses dirty teeth near your throat, "Their bottoms are made out of rubber," he sniffs you long and hard, settling with a weary sigh of appreciation. The long pauses drawing the song out much further than it normally would have been as he settles into the swing of things. He pauses, and turns away, walking to his herbs before gathering several bottles. He sets them each, uncapped, besides him and opens his journal. The handwriting is sketchy, much like a spider's might be, and he turns back with a wide smile and dim half-lidded eyes of contentment. A man who loves his job.

"And their tails are made, out of springs," he digs the blade into your clavicle, a swift sharp stab which he renders open and asunder with an expert flick of his wrist, and a coughing fit of amusement covers the next bit of song as you react as your are wont to do with intense pain. He reaches for a bottle, and with a long thin glass tube similar to a turkey baster, he suctions up a small amount of clear liquid and turns back to the wound being held open. "Fun fun fun fun fun! And the most wonderful thing about Tiggers is," he continues so briskly, actually breaking into a melodic tone during the parts of the song calling for it, that it almost beats the dull throbbing pain of a stab wound (very different from the pain of say, being burned, or iced heavily. You would learn these pains soon enough.) back by the sheer factor of bafflement.

His voice drops to a snarl, as he inserts the tube tip into the wound and the tone of the pain starts changing, he looks into your eyes deep and watching every instance of your pain through those mirrors and noting them for personal gain, "I'm the only one." A squeeze against the bulb and the pain flares up, hot and hissing. It's like being thrown in slightly cool water, that burns like flames and tingles as the nerves disappear under the administration. Acid eats its way into your flesh and he turns to take notes ignoring you entirely once the initial pain has been cataloged. He selects the next bottle when he finishes his haphazard scribbles in blue, black, and red pen depending on note type. He readies it, and the blade comes down again.

There are quite a few little bottles.

This is going to be a long day.

**Author's Note:**

> This _was_ an opening post for a roleplay, which started as a reference sheet for a profile, both of which got out of hand and became its own story which could be marketed to the masses as interesting. I hope you enjoyed it even with such a sordid past history masquerading as other things.


End file.
